I am constantly reminded of that popular Bible verse in I Corinthians 13: And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love. It is a verse that I highly cling to in faith and hope, something that I truly love to hear and ponder upon. Otherwise, I could easily give in to despair and cynicism, as it is prevalent in this world like a cancer. A good combination of a good dose of faith, hope and love is surely the medicinal treatment required for the cure.

Whether you adhere to this Biblical statement and belief, or absolutely do not, anyone can understand that we need faith, hope, and love to rely on. No matter what our walk is in life, whether we are Christians or of another religion—or have no belief in God or the spiritual life whatsoever—we all must have faith, hope, and love. Must!

Our very lives, and the world, depend on it.  

The religious aspect aside, who can exist without these three, without faith hope and love? Take the sun, for example. Even the staunchest atheist has faith that, without fail, the sun will reappear on the horizon, each and every morning, dispelling the darkness of night as the earth revolves around the sun. It’s like an undeclared promise, a brilliant, seemingly miraculous occurrence that should never cease to fill us with awe.

Until we take hold of these thoughts, how soon we do forget.  

Can you imagine if you woke up tomorrow and you never saw the sun again? Never? What would it be like if there was nothing but bleak darkness as we looked up into the sky for its beautiful blue canvas and infinite greatness? Our meager light bulbs and man-made lamps would pale in comparison to the blotted out light—the desert in the sky. Life would cease to be, and the thought of it seems almost incomprehensible—the utter void, the earth’s destruction, the deathliness, the icy cold and chaos. How we often take such things for granted! And the life-sustaining sun is only one of the countless things that we often take for granted as we dwell upon this magnificent earth. One may use his or her own analogy to compare.  

Along with faith to spur it on, who can survive without hope?  Hope reminds you it is still there when you cannot envision it there or feel its presence. It offers fresh, new pathways when your hopes have been dashed, and urges you to move on from false hopes that are imposters to the real deal.

I certainly cannot live without hope, nor could another living soul.  Having no hope at all feels like a living death, one I know of firsthand much too well. Inside of me—in my own being—when it seemed that the sun in my soul, with all its nurturing and guiding light, had entirely disappeared from within me—I experienced that vastly void, and dark, bottomless pit. In complete horror and pain, I felt my life would always be this way.  I liken it to having your lungs being ripped away from you, the wind ****** out of your spirit.

Oh, it is a dooming, crushing thing to have no hope!

But the thought of having not a shred of hope was something that I just could not bear nor accept. Thank God, it was an illusion, not really gone for good. It is the very fuel to propel rockets of dreams and goals, and it works hand in hand with faith and love. I believe wholeheartedly that hope is there for anyone’s access, no matter how low life seems. For like that eternal sun in the sky—sometimes seemingly doused out by menacing clouds—a temporary mirage, no doubt—hope is an invincible, precious and extraordinary gift, one that outshines despair by a thousandfold.    

Imagine if there was no love. Many of us think love is an illusion, a ***** trick to avoid. People often were supposed to love us, but failed. Surely, we can often fool ourselves into thinking something is love, when later we find that it is clearly not. Often, we feel burned when we show our vulnerable selves, simply on our quest to love and be loved.

But we want love nonetheless. We have to have it.

Love is as messy as life is. Hate often seems triumphant as we turn on the news. It seems to outshine love, and we grow weary by the cruelties we witness through the screen or from firsthand experience.  And by taking a good look in the mirror, we often question how loving we really are, for our guilt is reflected back at us for how we have failed others in a lack of love. Sometimes, we are just too scared to love. Sometimes, we just don’t want to make the effort. But love is still the greatest of all. There is no way this earth could spin well without it. What would be the need of it's ordered structure if not for such a high attainment as love?

Like I Corinthians says, if I have all knowledge or have faith, but have no love, it as if I have nothing—nothing at all. How many people have been taught that they are not worthy?

Again, like that sun, love covers everyone—encounters all at different times of reach—even those who are seemingly incapable of its power.  

And yet again, what if love had simply gone away for good, like faith and hope? Like that sun in the sky? What if hate truly reigned and ruled the earth?

But the battle is never over, and love must always fight on.  These can't just be words that I am saying to fill up space. I truly fight to believe this!

Again, that sun in the sky represents love to me, as well as it does faith and hope. It is warming and enriching. It is a pathway out of the restful night and into the ongoing world. Like it is a living entity, it doesn’t demand our constant attention, and nestles itself into the clouds before it makes its entrance once again, takes yet another bow.  It continually feeds the plants, which feed the people and the animals. And to imagine that this greater-than-life ball of fire is capable of creating rainfall that sustains life, too.  What a glorious contradiction!

With my poetic mind always churning, and the imagery flowing, I share these thoughts to you. Faith, hope, and love—I am truly amazed!

Sometimes, writing a poem seems fairly easy
Everything just clicks together
You can see something worthwhile reading
With each, little keystroke
Or jot of the pen
So you write away feverishly and freely
And as if your hands were possessed
By Shakespeare himself
You have little desire to stop a good thing

Sometimes, writing a poem is fantastically frustrating
You work at it and work at it
Go over it and over it and over it - again and again
The lumps and the kinks and the lack of quality
Searching hard for that Wow factor
But it is just pretty much off center no matter what you do
And you feel so inadequate to fix it up right
So you either settle for it being less than hoped for
Or trash it in absolute surrender
Obliterating the work for good

Sometimes, I write
And I sit back with a sense of accomplishment and pride
Other times, I write
And I want to bang my head
On the most convenient, hard surface I can find
Preferably one with jarring pain
For the inspiration for good writing is rather weak and blah
Highly disappointing and distressing
As my literary brain feels out of order
The struggle to scribble out an idea in my head
Just won't quite translate well onto paper

For, I guess, such is the life of a writer
I fear my glory days of writing poems are over
That the best of my abilities are far behind me
And my story writing will soon grow redundant
Like yesterday's newspaper
But if I have surprised myself before
And the winding road of life and the ticking away of time
Manage to provide me food for thought
I may eventually encounter fresh, new inspiration
My talent not used up after all
Can I allow myself that hope?

For such a life is a writer


P.S.  
For such is life.........period

Inside
I am bruised
I am bleeding
I am broken
Most cannot see it as they go about
It is not a physical thing
Except for the anger, sorrow and shame
Reflected on my face

The heaviness weighing me down

I engage in a fight, continually
One that I desperately want to call it quits  
Want to be rid of
If not for once and for good
I want to at least stop
And get a different perspective
To give it a rest for now
But how can I do that

When I am the true foe?

For I am the sole opponent
My own worst enemy
And the constant fight is
Within and not without
There is no referee
Who can declare a fair fight
There is no audience to cheer me on
To be the victorious champion
But only quiet desperation,
Wishful thinking and

Good intentions gone bad

For in this continual,
Almost daily match
Between me and myself
In the boxing arena of my thoughts,
This ugly, viscous cycle goes on 
Of self-inflicted pain and suffering
Quite intense, at times
Sometimes, at a low level battle,
But no winners are ever declared

Only defeat and indignity

So wrapped up in myself
Much of the time
When I want to be angry,
At the way my life is going,
Or mad at the often turbulent world,
For containing me inside it,
I turn around and
Attack who else?

Myself, again and again

Not able to get it together
The clutter in my mind
The clutter in my life
The fully needless
The utterly useless
The completely worthless
Things that seem to stick like glue
And do absolutely nothing for me

Soul consuming as quicksand

Standing so alone
In this battered state
I cannot point the finger at another
For any sort of blame
Not another person
Not at God

I willingly take the blame

Disappointed,
Disillusioned,
And often disgusted
At who I am
I truly don't want to
Live this life
With little hope

For relief or redemption

The continual yearning
For faith, hope and love,
That seems to slip
Out of my hands so easily,
I desperately want to grasp
With an ironclad fist
And never let go of

But they often evade me

Maybe letting go
Is truly my problem,
And the key to my solution,
In equal proportions
Yet I desperately fear
That in letting go of all the junk
That I'll be left
With nothing that seems familiar
Virtually nothing at all

But empty hands

Even as a writer
I know I could do more
A talent I wonder
Why I deserve
And am amazed that
Someone like me
Could capture someone else's attention

In any way, shape or form  

In my mind
I am the worst of the worst
A title that I don't even deserve
For disappointment,
Disillusionment and disgust
Define many a soul

Do they not?

And I only kid myself
That I do not share a common thread
With humankind
With many, many others
Who knows exactly what I mean
Who, like convicted criminals,
Feel imprisoned,
But without any visible bars
That prevent their freedom

I am way overdue in calling it quits

Rain,
long,
and luscious

At last


Rain,
saturating,
and satisfying

My thirsty soul


Rain,
inspiring,
and inviting,

Relief to my poetic drought


Rain,
nurturing,
and nursing

Nature, and all that is living

All the human race
Tear stained cheeks before laughter
Newborn's first response

Winter makes it sleep
Summer sun, power to parch
Spring, victorious

The Wind is fickle
A mighty blowhard so fierce
A soft, puny puff